


Bloodhound

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [16]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Evil, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Amorality, Angst, Backstory, Badwrong, Canon Related, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death Fix, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Creepy, Daddy Issues, Dark, Dark Character, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Science, Dysfunctional Relationships, Enemies, Escape, Evil Plans, Extremism, Fake Science, Families of Choice, Father Figures, Fights, Flying, Fucked Up, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Hatred, Having Faith, Ideology, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internal Monologue, Killing, Love, Loyalty, M/M, Martial Arts, Mentor/Protégé, Mentor/Sidekick, Mirror Universe, Misanthropy, Murder, Mutual Pining, Obsessive Behavior, POV Eggsy, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Philosophy, Pilots, Planet Destruction, Pseudo-Incest, Psychology, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Recovery, Regeneration, Rescue, Revenge, Science Fiction, Self-Reflection, Sexual Fantasy, Sidekicks, Subtle Daddy Kink, Terrorism, Terrorists, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Villains, Weapons of Mass Destruction, World Domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4402862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is the villain and Eggsy is his henchman, while Valentine is the Kingsman and Gazelle is his recruit.</p><p>Or, a role-reversal story rewriting the final scene of the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodhound

* * *

 

Eggsy remembers the day Harry saved him. The day Harry slammed a knee into the nape of the john who’d had a ten-year-old Eggsy pinned to a seedy wall, breaking the john’s neck with an audible snap. Eggsy remembers how Harry had knelt before him and wiped the come off Eggsy’s split lower lip, carefully and gently, and said that Eggsy would never have to whore himself out again.

Eggsy still has the handkerchief Harry wiped him with. A cream-and-gold monogrammed handkerchief, worn and stained with age and the myriad ways Eggsy has used it, caressed it, cried into it, clutched at it, clung to it and masturbated with it.

Harry is dead, now, their headquarters going up in flames, and Eggsy knows that those flames are reflected in his own eyes, making them glow with a hellish conviction.

His master is gone, and he will have his revenge. He feels feral, incandescent with rage, a dog let off his owner’s leash, his teeth bared like fangs.

“If you think,” Gazelle pants, drawing up a bladed foot that glitters in the reddish light of the fire, “that I’ll allow you to live long enough to resurrect that snake of a man you called your employer, you’re mistaken.”

“If you think,” Eggsy says, with a deadly calm, “that Harry is just my employer, then you’re the one that’s mistaken.” His voice is steady, despite the hate boiling in his veins. Wrath lends an odd clarity to his vision, every detail standing out in stark, slow-motion relief.

“You killed my mentor,” Gazelle spits. “I killed yours. Fair’s fair.”

“I don’t care about fair.” Eggsy draws his own knife, given that his gun has run out of bullets, and flicks it open with a graceful swirl of his wrist. “Maybe you’ve settled for grieving, Kingswoman, but I’m getting Harry back. If I put him into a regeneration cryo-pod within an hour, he’ll be fine.”

“Keep dreaming,” Gazelle snarls, and attacks.

It’s a blur of motion and jarring vertigo. Eggsy’s muscles twinge, because he’s been fighting for what seems like an eternity, and he’s bleeding from multiple jabs and slashes. He whirls and spins, as if in a dance, the inferno closing in around him like a fiery maw. His lungs ache and his sweat drips in the rising, scorching heat. Smoke clogs up his throat. It becomes increasingly difficult to breathe.

Eggsy loses his weapon, regains it, loses it again and resorts to wielding shards of shattered glass that slice into his palms. It’s the longest trial of Eggsy’s existence, not least because he has to hurry to Harry’s side, as soon as possible, as soon as he’s neutralized the former Agent Valentine’s overeager protégée.

Finally, though, Gazelle is dead, her dancing, bladed feet still at last, their metal beading with a sticky crimson that matches the pulpy mess she’s made of Eggsy’s torso. The suit Harry had personally commissioned for him—like a painting—is ruined, Eggsy’s sleek silk shirt in shreds.

Eggsy staggers into the smashed-up computer lab where Harry lies motionless on his desk, in a pool of gleaming near-black, his hand a crucial centimeter away from the activation button that would’ve brought the entire planet to a standstill, that would’ve decimated the earth’s human population in an orgy of violence that he and Harry would have fucked to, probably.

Or will fuck to, whenever Harry gets over that pesky conscience of his and fucks Eggsy like he’s been yearning to, ever since Eggsy turned seventeen. But Eggsy is twenty, and still unmolested. Still unclaimed.

It isn’t whoring himself out if he’s giving himself freely to his guardian. Eggsy has yet to convince Harry of that. And now Harry is dead.

No matter. He’ll be alive, once more, if Eggsy gets him to the cryo-pod in time, if Eggsy packs them into the escape shuttle and pilots it to their other secret headquarters, on a tiny, nameless island in the South Pacific.

So Eggsy slings an arm across Harry’s waist and hauls, gasping as the added weight tears at his throbbing injuries. He comforts himself by fantasizing feverishly about Harry bandaging those injuries, kissing them, hurt by hurt, as tenderly as he’d done while Eggsy was still a child.

Eggsy stumbles toward the escape shuttle with Harry in his grip, half-lurching and half-dragging them through the billowing ash and the rancid stench of roasting bodies. Several charred, headless corpses almost trip Eggsy up in the corridors leading to the hangar.

When Eggsy launches the shuttle fifteen minutes later, it’s with Harry strapped into the cryo-pod in the cargo hold, fluid being pumped back into his veins and electricity back into his brain, his eyelids fluttering and his hair floating in clear biojuice. His gunshot holes are closing, trailing threads of pink.

Harry’s naked in the pod, his expensive tuxedo and slacks stripped from him prior to shutting him in there. He looks vulnerable and innocent, nothing like the dark-eyed, deviously smiling, devastatingly beautiful and ferociously intelligent man who had most of the globe’s politicians—and all of Eggsy’s emotions—dancing to his tune.

But it doesn’t make Eggsy feel powerful, to see his master brought so low. It only makes him feel powerless. As powerless as he’d been on the streets, as an orphan, giving blowjobs for spare change and spreading his legs for a decent meal.

He won’t lose his father again. He won’t lose another parent. Another home.

So, the moment the shuttle is above neutral waters and can safely be switched to autopilot, Eggsy does so, and goes to watch Harry in the cryo-pod, to see Harry twitch as he comes back to life in gradual degrees, his fingers furling and unfurling, as if grasping at an elusive consciousness. His chest rises and falls, each movement infinitely, unbearably precious. His lips part.

Eggsy wants to kiss him, so badly, wants to plead with him to wake up, quickly, _please_ , but all Eggsy can do is to lean his forehead against the transparent cover of the pod and sob unevenly, his nails scratching futilely at the cool glass.

He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? He’s done well, hasn’t he? He’s earned this, hasn’t he? Having Harry with him forever?

They have so much to do. So much to _fix_. This sick, depraved world to set to rights, to rewrite, to excise, to cut the fat and the filth from it and burn it clean, cauterize it like a fresh wound.

Humanity is a disease—of that, Eggsy has been sure, ever since the first stinking cock was shoved past his lips when he was just eight. Now, he has Harry to thank for involving him in administering the cure, for giving him a chance to do something meaningful, something great. For giving Eggsy a chance to rescue their stupid, barbarous, bumbling species from itself.

Their plan has been temporarily stalled by Kingsman, but Eggsy has no doubt that it will be concluded, effortlessly, upon Harry’s return. Harry’s downright Byzantine connections in the criminal underworld and in politics will swiftly restore his original designs to their former glory, and the satellites whose autonomy national governments are so confident of will be easily commandeered with Eggsy’s skill at hacking and Harry’s skill at finding key officials to threaten or bribe into cooperation.

Eggsy has complete faith that their end-of-the-world party will resume, in full swing, within six months. And that Harry will make love to Eggsy, that night, on satiny thousand-count sheets, while Eggsy sighs and arches beneath the distant glimmer of fireworks going off, like supernovas, above their island paradise.

“Wake up, Harry,” Eggsy whispers, as if it were a confession, and sinks to the floor to curl up, childlike, at the base of the cryo-pod. Hours have already passed, with him trapped in this strange vigil, but he can’t leave, can’t sleep, can’t rest until Harry awakens. “Touch me.”

The digital clock on the pod’s panel flashes the number 11:16 in large green digits.

Less than forty-five minutes to go.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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